


who is this person in my tummy?

by OAbsalom



Series: tails, i'm afraid [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blessings Are Just Poorly Disguised Temptations, Catholicism, Crowley Does Blessings, Exorcisms, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Religion, The Arrangement (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23291683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OAbsalom/pseuds/OAbsalom
Summary: This wasn’t the first exorcism Crowley had taken on Aziraphale's behalf, and it wouldn’t be his last, but itwashis first little girl. Cold fury rose behind his eyes. He’d possessed his fair share of humans, but he never went anywhere near the kids. As far as he was concerned, kids were off-limits.Or: Crowley performs an exorcism as part of the Arrangement
Series: tails, i'm afraid [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676125
Comments: 51
Kudos: 303





	who is this person in my tummy?

**Author's Note:**

> Installment 1 of the collected works of The Arrangement - wherein Crowley and Aziraphale trade off their responsibilities. Will update every three to four days in the series [tails, i'm afraid](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676125).
> 
> Click [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381935) for Installment 2!  
> Click [ here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498869) for Installment 3!

The demon Crowley cast his eyes upward. Limestone mullions divvied up the leaded Vermeer crosses, warm yellow light spilling out and dispersing into the dark of the night. His grip tightened on the leather bag in his hand, and his quick feet mounted the concrete stairs before him. Loud bells called out behind the carved floral filigrees in the heavy oak door, and he craned his neck up and away from a tight white clerical collar as he waited for the response. Bloody liturgy; who’s the constrictor here anyway? To his credit, he'd come across the vestments dishonestly, having just rolled away from tempting a priest to skip finishing his homily to get waist-deep in a bottle of gin on a Saturday night. A little spirit spilled on the Good Book and the man's notes followed by a rummaging visit to his closet would ensure a right hectic start to the Lord's day. 

The door swung inward to reveal a very grim middle-aged man. 

_For Satan’s sake, ‘s not like anybody’s dying…_

Crowley knit his brow, inwardly rolled his eyes, and nodded solemnly, stepping forward into the home’s foyer. 

“Where is the poor soul?” he asked, glancing up the stairs in anticipation. The man fidgeted in anxiety and nodded after his gaze, gesturing toward the upper floor. 

“Right.”

—

A single hurricane lamp cast a cone of light up rose and gold damask wallpaper, diffusing out into the room to glint faintly on the uprights of a brass bed frame. Only a couple of pieces of simple furniture spotted the walls, and Crowley's eyes scouted the room to seek out other foreboding spirits.

A young girl lay on the bed, shivering, covered in sweat. It was clear her body was spent, every exhausted muscle limp on the sheets. Crowley’s eyes narrowed sharply, and his back teeth clenched tight; she couldn’t have been older than six or seven. 

His mind ran through whose work this might have been and was relieved to quickly deduce it was no one that should _reasonably_ know who he was by sight alone. It wasn’t at all well-crafted; there were no signature twitches, no well-rehearsed litany of curses against the saints. Not only would his cover be preserved, but for such a minor demon he shouldn’t need the more _extreme_ measures the angel had balked at providing. 

“Right. We’ll need, ah,” He sat the doctor’s bag down on a nearby chest of drawers and slipped on a pair of slim black leather gloves. He glanced over the accoutrements Aziraphale had sent along with him and ran a finger along the row of gold crosses slipped into leather loops, listening to them clink against one another, ending on the cork of a small glass bottle. He licked his lips and glanced sidelong at the girl on the bed. 

This wasn’t his first exorcism, and it wouldn’t be his last, but it was his first little girl. Cold fury rose behind his eyes. He’d possessed his fair share of humans, but he never went anywhere near the kids. As far as he was concerned, kids were off-limits. He mentally ticked through the list of excruciating stages necessary to expel his associate, and the fury only steeled harder. 

He slipped an ornate cross from its holster. It was cast with decadent floral curls and an effigy of the Son of God, arms spread wide to accept the sins of mankind. Crowley had a small flashback to watching the man himself being nailed to his own cross and wondered at the macabre likeness. Sometimes, humans were horrifying.

He cringed a little at the impending task and put his hand softly on the girl’s forehead. He watched her closed eyes closely and dug deeply with the demonic nature inside him, reaching occult feelers out toward the darkness of Hell to grip at the entity in question. It should help the process go a little quicker, at least, to have some clue how deep it was lurking. After a few slimy dodges, he got a grip on its proverbial shirt collar. 

_There you are, you bastard_.

Glancing up over his glasses at the man hovering by the door frame, he made the sign of the cross over the girl with the hand of beneficence. The demon-cum-priest deepened his voice and spoke loudly. “I, humble shepherd of God and of the Church,” Crowley felt a familiar distaste swell in the back of his throat and reminded himself he had a very long way to go, “command you, if you have stolen this child’s body, announce yourself! Give some sign, O demon, at once!”

The prescribed words were almost laughable. No one had ever attempted to exorcise Crowley, but he knew the line wasn’t at all intimidating. He'd have mocked the clergyman and stayed curled up tight behind his host's heart. But still, the recitation had to start somewhere. 

The girl’s eyes opened slowly, focused immediately on Crowley, then slipped to the man at the door. 

“..Daddy?” She asked weakly. “Daddy, is this the doctor?”

A feeble smile cracked his sober varnish. “Y—”

“No,” Crowley interrupted firmly. Her frightened expression turned toward him. “No, you know full well I’m not the doctor.”

With fervent dismay, she looked between the man in black and the man at the door. “Daddy, I’m scared!”

“Don’t—” Crowley patted his hand low against the air in the direction of the girl’s father, angling yellow eyes over the rims of his glasses, “Don’t answer it.”

The man shook his head helplessly and worried his hands together. He opened and closed his mouth in his daughter’s direction before biting his bottom lip and looking away. The girl began to cry. 

_Come on, don’t you have somewhere better to be?_

Crowley looked down and sighed quietly to himself. “Tell us your name, demon!” He commanded with authority. 

The crying only got louder, and the girl called out for her father, voice ringing with fear. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, but held tightly to his position. She tore her gaze away from him and turned to Crowley instead.

“I’m Catherine! My name is Catherine! I’m no demon!” she practically wailed. Her cries devolved into choked, heaving sounds.

Crowley’s throat burned in ire at the ersatz panic the demon used the little girl’s voice to produce, and he barked back sarcastically, ”No. No you’re not, not even a little.” The banter continued on and off for what felt like ages, Crowley calling out to God and invoking the name of Christ while the girl’s voice called out in terror for her father, her mother, and eventually to no one at all. Her voice became hoarse and exhausted, and Crowley grew more frustrated by the minute. Eventually, he’d had enough of the farce. He looked away to take a deep breath before leaning over in a flash to come face to face with the child on the bed. He pressed the cross to her sternum and outright hissed, “Come out and face me, you evil son of a bitch.”

Both the girl and her father jumped in surprise at the profanity, then a wide grin broke out on her face. A deep voice rumbled from her throat, “I like a priest with some spice, father.”

_That’s right, come on out._

Crowley stuck his jaw out and clicked his front teeth together in annoyance. Gotta keep to the script, he’d hate for Hell to start looking into a ribald clergyman. He did his best to channel Aziraphale’s self-righteous excuses for his own poor behavior. 

“The Lord God makes concessions for drawing out the foul fiends of the night!” High drama rolled upward into his shoulders as he brandished the cross in front of him like a dagger. It was altogether convincing, if he could say so himself. “Name thyself!”

“Oh _please_ ,” said the demon. The girl’s head flopped limp on her neck in annoyance, and her eyes rolled. “Is this how it’s going to be?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” came the conspiratorial whisper with an exasperated cock of his eyebrow. He stalked back to the bag and pulled out the glass vial with ginger fingertips. The being on the bed began to thrash violently. 

“You think you’re going to frighten me with that!?” boomed the possessor. The girl’s body looked like it had had enough shaking hours since, and Crowley was beginning to lose his patience.

“I think I already have,” smirked the words from his quiet lips. He took the rosary from around his neck - glimmering black beads strung on red cotton - and laid it on the mortal before him. She was so small, it traversed half the length of her. It was shaken off almost immediately. He gathered it back up, draped it over her again, and pressed down hard on her chest to mitigate some of the shaking. A wince spiked sickly behind his ears. How small and delicate were the ribs beneath his hand. He tried to calculate just how hard he had to press to prevent the violent motion while still not breaking any of them.

_This absolute piece of_ **_shit_ ** _…_

He palmed the bottle, and his thumb and forefinger grasped the cork, held high above the prone, cohabited child. A warning. “God’s Will will triumph over you, wretched demon! You made your choices,” he shouted, feeling the sentiment ooze down the back of his throat like scalding motor oil, “but you will not impose them on this young soul! It is ordained that I should spread this Holy Water over this poor victim if she is not freed at once!” Leaning in closely, he added with a whispered hiss, “No demon would want to collide with the will of God’s Kingdom, would they?”

The creature hissed back at him, and he wiggled his fingers to loosen the cork on the bottle. “In the name of the Father..” He threatened.

_**“** **Haaaahggggggg!!!** **”**_ Shrieked the unearthly shout that filled the room more fully than it should have been able to hold the sound. The girl’s body flailed as wildly as it could with Crowley holding it down, and he slipped the hand holding the vial behind her bouncing head to prevent it banging against the headboard. 

After a minute or two, the ungodly din ended in a sudden silence that would have knocked Crowley off his feet had his corporation not already been shielding the child on the bed. Her father was crouched on the floor with his arms wrapped tight round his head. Slowly, Crowley released the small figure. Her chest rose and fell in slow, heaving breaths, and he gave her a cursory scan for any readily-apparent injuries. With none to be found, he began to pack up his cross and rosary in silence. Sweat had soaked through his vestments and sleeked down his hair. He plucked the gloves from his hands, one finger at a time, and folded them into the bag as well, carefully avoiding the row of crosses.

“She’ll need a doctor to examine her,” he said blandly to the hunched man across the room and snapped the latch closed, “and as much bed rest as she needs to feel one hundred percent.” On his way out the door, he paused, glanced back at the fevered slumber of the child on the bed, and added, “And ah… ice cream.”

“I… Ice cream?” trembled the human on the ground.

“Yes,” Crowley said, forcing as much clout into his tone as he could. “Loads. The milk and sugar help seal off.. the... heart. From more spirits.”

A baffled expression chased after him, but he was down the stairs and out the heavy oak doors before anything more could be said. He stopped at the bottom of the concrete stairs, pulled the vial out of his pocket, and tossed back the gin inside. The bitter taste contorted his face in a grimace, despite the limited quantity.

Still, it was enough to wash the taste of Heaven out of his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _[The Tummy Beast](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51659/the-tummy-beast)_ by Roald Dahl.
> 
> Click [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381935) for Installment 2!  
> Click [ here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498869) for Installment 3!  
> Click [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676125) and subscribe to be notified of new fics added to the series! <3
> 
> Thank you to [Eturni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eturni) and [JoseyxNeko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joseyxneko) for keeping my Britishisms on track. <3


End file.
